


Uprising

by rocknrollalien



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Multi, Other, POV Second Person, Present Tense, Slave Uprising, Slavery, Tevinter Imperium, but this is a very OC centric fic, dragon age 4, i'll update the tags as they appear, there will be a LOT of character cameos and appearances
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-16
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-04-01 00:26:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13986516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rocknrollalien/pseuds/rocknrollalien
Summary: It's been a year since the Inquisition drew to a close. Corypheus is long dead (and not coming back this time), and his lieutenant, Calpernia, has better things to do than to mourn his loss. A slave uprising is building in Minrathous, and revolution is soon to come.You are Illana Dacien, a slave and a pit fighter. Once you've achieved your freedom, it may be up to you to change the shape of the future of Tevinter.--This is basically my idea for what Dragon Age 4 should look like. Because it'll be a fanfic instead of a fully fleshed out game, it will (unfortunately) only be able to follow one of many potential routes in my would-be game. This fic will go through an Uprising in Tevinter and all that might entail in a Dragon Age game.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is an experimental fic in a lot of ways for me. First of all, writing in second-person present-tense is super challenging and interesting for me as a writer; the reason I went for that is because this originated as a video game idea and...well, the protagonist would be the player character, or--you. 
> 
> Secondly, I worry I'm portraying slavery a little...lightly. Characters are allowed some freedoms, and I don't go too deep into their trauma at all times. This is partially just about practicality (about pacing, plot, and how I need things to happen for other things to happen) but also because I think Bioware tends to treat the whole Tevinter slavery thing as less traumatizing and awful than it should be and I am trying to keep a semi-consistent tone.
> 
> Anyway, this is just the prologue. I hope to make this into a long fully fleshed out fic, and I have lots of ideas to keep it going. If you have any thoughts or questions about the premise, please comment! I live for feedback!

The clang of metal striking metal fills your ears, just as your mouth fills with the taste of iron. You can hear voices shouting, and you can smell only blood. You disregard these things, as you always have, and focus on one thing alone: Survival.

You don’t even bother to think as you spin, dancing around your opponents blades, moving to sink your own into his neck. You shrink back from the eruption of blood that flows from his throat, but you feel its warmth against your face nonetheless. It’s just one of those things. You can’t win every battle.

Except that you do. You must. If you lose a single battle, slip a single time--

Your opponent, an elven man, sinks to the floor as you push him off of your knives. He is a heap, crumpling on the floor as though life never flowed through his veins. You know why mages use the blood of slaves to fuel them--it is that life force, that turns a pile of flesh and gristle into a man capable of thought. Of course, slaves are considered not to be capable of such in the public eye.

You turn away and your hand, now sticky with a dead man’s blood, is raised above your head in victory. Ha! Victory. What a farce.

At the end of the night, as the sun rises somewhere outside the city walls, you are taken ‘home.’ You are patted on the back by a man--a human man, a mage--named Marcellus, who says that you earned him almost what you were worth in gold.

“Of course,” he tells you. “Every time you pull off a win like that, your value rises! I’ve been checking the market regularly to see how much one like you would fetch me!”

He laughs, and affectionately touches the tip of your nose. It’s meant to be a playful gesture. You know to conceal your disgust, and keep your face neutral. No matter how favoured you are, no matter how many wins you rack up, you will never gift this man with your smile. Your smile is the only possession of yours that was not given to you by him. You guard it jealously.

A morning passes, bleeds into afternoon, and then evening. You train relentlessly, as you are told to do. Wooden weapons are your tools when you stand in your master’s--the word has never sat well with you--cellar. Some part of you wonders if the cellar connects to the Catacombs that sprawl beneath Minrathous, the ones you’ve heard others whisper about, but you know that exploration can only mean punishment. And with a man like Marcellus, if he can be called such, punishment easily leads to a clumsy death.

You think about your death often, and how you would like to die. You know that it’s likely you’ll be skewered on a sword, or burnt to a crisp, but you wonder if there are other ways. You’ve begun to suspect that you’ll die with your own blood on your lips, but you aren’t entirely sure how you feel about that.

You trance-like state of mind is interrupted by the voice of a girl. You turn and see an elf, one who was a recent addition to the Arena. She is small, but muscled, with a bright smile on her face. You could see why Marcellus would buy her. He likes his slaves to smile.

“Oy!” she calls out, getting your attention. “O Mighty Imperator! Champion of the Area!”

“Are you talking to me?” you ask her, lowering your wooden blades.

“Who else has a win streak like yours?” the girl asks, placing a hand on her hip. “‘Sides me, ‘course.”

“‘Sides who?” you reply, and your frown isn’t as harsh as it was a moment ago. You’re amused by this girl already, and you think that teasing her might result in a friendship. Assuming, of course, that neither of you die in the following weeks.

“Me! Oh, I get it, you’re such a hot shot you don’t know my name? Tough! You’re gonna learn it whether you want to or not!” the elf says, leaning forward eagerly. Her smile only grows wider. “My name is Nari.”

You turn back to your dummy, a pitiful creature made of wood and straw, and strike at it with your wooden blades. One at the jugular, one at the groin. It is enough to make a Qunari bleed out as quick as you need him to, but a dummy doesn’t fight back.

“Are you ignoring me, Imperator?” Nari asks, coming up behind the dummy so as to remain in your line of vision.

You almost smirk, but you don’t.

“Don’t you know my name?” you ask her. “If I’m so famous, of course.”

She crosses her arm and lets out a thin sound of annoyance. You raise an eyebrow, and again, a smile almost comes to you. You hold back; you don’t know if she’s yet worth it.

“I keep askin’ but it sounds like nobody’s caught your name except...Marcellus.” The pause before she says his name is telling. She doesn’t like saying it, perhaps. Or maybe she’s so new she’s not sure if she’s allowed to speak the name. “So?” she asks, throwing an arm over the dummy’s makeshift shoulders as though it’s an old friend. “What is it, then? What’s the name? Or is everyone ‘spected to call you Imperator for the rest of your life, as short or as long as that may be?”

You lower your blades again, and look her over. Her hair looks as though it was once cropped short, but has since grown out; the hair worming its way behind her ears and down her neck. She has a fresh bruise on her cheek, and a thin scar tracing the contours of her collarbone as it is visible beneath her tunic. She is no fresh peach, but she acts like a free woman.

“Illana,” you say, with the ghost of a smile on your face. “Illana Dacien,” you elaborate proudly. You know your surname, and you’ll never let it go. Most slaves don’t remember, or never had second names. You hope that this Nari can see the pride in your eyes, and know that you are like her. You still have spirit, somewhere in your bones.

“Dacien, is it?” Nari repeats. “I don’t got a last name, but I’m fine with the one I have. Anyway, I’m not actually here just to interrogate you.”

You’re almost disappointed. Perhaps she is not a friend after all.

“Oh? To business then,” you say, raising your weapons and jabbing at the dummy. It rattles on its stand.

“Um, right,” Nari says, scratching the back of her neck. “Big news! Marcellus wants to talk to you. To us! Don’t be gettin’ any ideas about me not bein’ as good as you, Imperator!”

You shrug.

“That’s not news at all. What would be news is if he expected us to talk back,” you say, and move to the weapons rack. Other gladiators, like yourself, have emptied it but for a few staves and an axe. You place your wooden blades where they came from, and turn to Nari to let her lead you.

She prickles at your indifference, and you feel as though you’ve won a small battle. She must be new, indeed. Most of the others keep their distance from you, afraid that your position as Marcellus’s favourite has turned you into a monster. You don’t blame them, really. If you’d seen someone kill the way you do, you might be afraid as well. Nari though, she seems to want nothing more than to prove herself.

Perhaps she is young.

She leads you up through the house, into the library. You rarely see Marcellus’s mansion beyond the cellar and the Arena, so you can’t help but look around the library with some interest. Your mother taught you to read, but you have received rare opportunity indeed to flex this skill. If the others knew you could read _and_ kill, they might fear you even more.

Marcellus sat in a plush chair, scribbling furiously on some parchment. He does not look up when the two of you enter. He finishes his business, and casually glances up at you. He does not fear you. Part of you wishes he would.

“Nari! And Imperator! Did you hear that’s what they’re calling you?” he remarks conversationally.

You nod. He is satisfied.

“I’m rather gratified with the title, myself, though you know how I feel about you getting...you know, _airs_ so let’s not let it go too far. The idea of having raised up an Imperator though, a Champion if you will, it’s simply titillating!”

You keep your eyes low, and glance to the side. Nari’s hands are balled into fists. Neither of you speak.

“Enough dilly dallying, shall we get on to business?” He sits back in his chair, lacing his fingers together behind his head. “Enough rabbiting on, I’ve got important matters, don’t I?” You’ve never hated a single person as much as you hate him. “I have, well, let’s say I’ve earned some _ire_ inside the Magesterium. Perhaps they’re jealous of my Imperator, ha! In any case, I’ll have to be vacating this house. I’ll be taking most of my possessions with me, of course, but I simply can’t grab it all in a mad dash, and I’ve got too many valuables here to just leave it to the Templars, you understand?”

It dawns on you what he’s talking about. You’ve overheard his arguments, of course, as anyone with ears could. He’s been trying to make a political move, and as likely lost favour. That means news of his blood magic mysteriously ‘comes to light,’ and his rivals send Templars to kill him. Or rather, kill you, from what his proposition is shaping up to be.

“You _do_ know that I value you, don’t you?” he asks, and in your peripheral vision you watch him lean forward, placing his elbows on the desk.

You do not speak. You are not expected to.

“Well, it matters not what you know or profess to have knowledge of,” he says with a wave of his hand. “You, and dear Nari here, are going to stay while the rest of us leave.”

You look up, and for a moment, just a moment, meet his eyes. You avert your gaze shortly after, but long enough to see the shift in his face. You know there is still freedom, some of it, in your eyes. You can’t help it. He dislikes your eyes, and has said so many times. You are glad he does not like them.

“You two will, ah, kill all Templars who attempt to trespass while I retreat to my summer estate. The Magesterium will feel that they’d paid their political dues in attempting to hunt me and mine, the house will be...ah, primarily unmussed, and when I feel properly safe, I’ll send for the two of you again and you can join me in my home.”

Your eyes narrow as you think, a reflexive response. In his home…?

“Ah, you are a bright one, aren’t you Imperator?” he asks. His tone is mocking, his voice lingering on the nickname. Perhaps he resents your glory more than he lets on. You don’t care either way. “If you two don’t die, I’ll have you as my personal guards. House slave privileges, of course, properly clothed and fed, and I’ll even give you steel weapons to keep at your sides. Doesn’t that sound cherry?”

You watch Nari out of the corner of your eye, and her face is awash with emotion. You half expect her to say something like ‘That’s just peachy!’ or ‘Haha, yep, buddy!’ Something informal, as though she is not owned by the man speaking. You half expect her bright voice to perk up, not knowing the type of man Marcellus is. You half expect his bejeweled hand to strike her face, the rings and crystals cutting into her cheek.

You are relieved at her silence.


	2. Templars

A day passes, and you are not told to train or to fight. You are allowed into the main body of the mansion, lead past many doors that lead to mysteries, and are told to stay in the foyer. Nari is with you. You are told that Templars are coming, and you are to kill them. 

You are told not to die.

This is a command you are used to.

The rest of the household leaves you and Nari behind. The two of you stand shoulder to shoulder--metaphorically, of course, as an elf she’s quite a bit shorter than you--in the foyer, and wait with the familiar weight of steel at your hips.

Time passes.

You wish Marcellus hadn’t packed up his library in the night. You would wander there, and seek to learn. You know there are no books of worth there any longer, so you wait.

“So…” Nari started, reaching high above her head in a lazy stretch. The elf is younger than you, and obviously growing bored. You can’t blame her; you’re a bit bored as well. “How long have you been with Marcellus?”

‘Been with’ is an awkward phrasing. ‘Owned by’ would be more accurate. Nari, despite her brash tongue when bragging, seems to flinch around slave words. You understand.

“Fifteen years,” you say, glancing over your shoulder at her. Your fingers trace empty shelves, as if looking for something. “I was sold to him when I was ten.”

She lets out a low whistle. You turn toward her, and arch an eyebrow.

“I’m glad you’re impressed,” you say. “But why?”

“I’ve never been owned by anybody longer ‘an a year or two,” she admits, and she says it like it’s a badge of pride. You don’t understand, but you don’t feel the need to pretend to.

“I didn’t ask,” you say. It’s a challenge.

Nari takes it.

“Well aren’t you just the Queen of Antiva!” she snaps back at you. “Maybe I only asked to get one up on ya, huh?” The ‘fight me!’ in her words goes unsaid.

A smirk is not quite a smile, but it’s close. Nari doesn’t know how close she is to seeing something that no master has ever seen, but before it can become a genuine expression of amusement, there is a knocking at the door.

The knocking turns rather rapidly into pounding, and the door splinters. Panic laces your veins as you try to figure if Marcellus will count this as a failure, and kill you as a result. Any planning for the future vacates your mind in an instant as heavily armored men come into the house. There are five of them. Three wearing platemail, two in leathers. 

Your blades are in your hands as quickly as thought leaves your head, and Nari rushes ahead of you.

Paired combat is something you’ve experienced before, but never by choice--who are you kidding, you’ve done nothing by choice in your life--so you’ve never taken a shine to it. Still, as the small musclebound elf hurtles toward the Templars, you find it easy to take advantage of the distraction she creates.

Fighting and killing is easy, you’ve found. You just need to live longer than the other person.

You whirl around the Templars who go to parry Nari’s blows, your sharp eyes finding flaws in their armor, and you strike. Two blades--one in his neck, sliding neatly underneath his helmet, and the other aimed at his waist--one death. The second blade does little other than sever his sash, but the first does it’s job. Before you can be accosted by the others, you move your free knife--the one not embedded in the first’s throat--to lightly parry another’s sword. 

Nari shouts, and charges. With wide sweeps of her blade, she startles two of them into falling and pushes a third over. Some part of your brain would like to laugh at the poor training of Tevinter’s Templars, but it is drowned out by the noise of adrenaline. You are able to remove your knife from his neck, and turn toward your would-be attacker. You spin, and know that in another life you would have made a formidable dancer, because your feet expertly tangle in his, and his defensive spin turns into a clumsy spill onto the floor.

As you sink your blades through the metal of his armor--the steel of his breastplate made to avoid slashes, not direct punctures from practiced hands--you catch Nari out of the corner of your eye. She’s beheaded a Templar of her own. Two left.

There’s a sword at your neck, now, as you kneel to remove your blades from a dead man’s chest. Your fingers caress the hilts of your blades, but if you sink further, your flesh will kiss steel.

“Where is your master?” he demands.

A foolish mistake, attempting to banter. He’s run through a moment later, Nari’s sword nearly skimming you as you dodge back. You snatch up your blades and nod at your partner. There’s one man left, with a gash in his side as he tries to crawl away. He grabs at his wound, as if attempting to hold the blood in, and the two of you approach him. 

You recognize the fear in his eyes. You’ve seen it more times than you could count, even with your rudimentary math skills. He knows he’s going to die, and the two of you know it too. You bend down, make long, slow eye contact with the man, and draw your blade across his throat. He has the dignity not to beg.

The two of you are left standing in a pool of Templar blood, panting wearily, as moonlight pours in through what is left of the front door. You look at the light, and it slowly dawns on you the potential lying before you.

“We could…” you say, and for the first time in a long while, you are vulnerable. Your voice is soft and shakes slightly as you seek to articulate your thought. “ _ Escape _ ,” you say at last, the word coming out as a nervous breath.

“We can’t,” Nari says firmly.

You look at her, and she is visibly biting the inside of her cheek, her eyebrows furrowed as her eyes lock on the splinters where the door had once been. She sounds confident, but you can tell that she is unsure.

“Why?” you ask, and it is a desperate thing.

She shakes her head and turns to you, away from the door. She is shaking, but is trying very hard to ignore it. It’s a display of bravery more impressive than any of her smart mouthing earlier on.

“Where would we go?” she demands, her bright eyes meeting yours. “Who would take us in? We would be two slaves, in slave clothes, with blood on our hands. Have you ever been loose in Minrathous? Have you ever--have you ever tried to escape before?”

You put your hand on her shoulder in a clumsy attempt to comfort the girl, but you must answer honestly.

“I don’t know,” you say. A light sigh escapes your lips.

She shrugs off your hand and turns away, squaring her shoulders. “If we’re house slaves, we’ve got a good thing coming. I didn’t think--whatever, I think this is a good thing for us,” she says. She’s rationalizing, but her point is valid. “If we run off like chickens with ‘er heads cut off, we’ll be dead in a minute. It’s just...it’s just not sustainable.”

You back away, leaning against the wall. You’re tired now, emotionally and physically.

“Where’d you learn a word like that?” you ask.

She turns back to you, confused, and you just look at her. You’re not quite smiling, but your expression is...almost friendly.

“What word?” she asked, absolutely baffled.

“Sustainable,” you repeat. “I pegged you as the type who avoided words over two syllables.”

“Ah, get fucked,” she said, her face breaking into a smile. “I know lots more than I look like!”

Before you can retort, you hear someone clear their throat. Panic lodges in your throat as you turn; had you forgotten someone? Was there another Templar, just lying in wait to kill you? Was Marcellus back so soon? Had he heard the discussion of escaping?

A Qunari stands in the hallway that leads to the foyer, and next to them is a human man in this 50s. You freeze, attempting to assess the situation before you attack or flee. The Qunari is doing the same, hands near daggers of their own, eyes tracing the contours of the corpses on the ground. They take in the scene without rushing, and gradually lock their eyes back on you.

The human man--tall for a human, short next to the grey giant he had entered with--looks overcome with an emotion you don’t understand. His large brown eyes flood with tears, and he makes no motions to conceal or deal with the tears as they make tracks in the dirt and dust on his face. His mouth is slightly open as he takes in the scene, slower and less certain than his companion.

They make an odd duo, to be sure. You don’t know how they got in, what they’re doing here, or how they intend to leave. Uncertainty makes you anxious. Anxiety makes you tend toward violence. You grip your daggers defensively, and you feel your knuckles going white.

You dare a flicker of a glance at Nari; if she storms forward, surely you can get advantage of both of them in no time. You feel the ache in your bones from the previous fight, and the human looks like a mage based on his robes (though shabby) and his staff (though cracked), but if the two of you are fast and precise…

Nari has her sword in her hands, but is relaxed. She looks speculative, curious, and almost like she’s trying to remember something. She looks useless. Without her to draw the fire of the mage, the fight will easily be lost. If you throw one of your daggers and get lucky, you may be able to harm the Qunari badly enough that you can dispose of the human before they get any momentum. But if the Qunari is able to endure pain, then you’ll be short one dagger as well as outnumbered. 

“Hey,” the Qunari says, now looking past you to Nari.

“Don’t I know you?” Nari asks, tilting her head.

“Hard to say,” they say. Their face hardly moves as they speak, giving the impression of a statue or a golem rather than a being of flesh and blood. You wonder if it’s a tactic, and you wonder when you started believing everything was a tactic.

“No, I can say it. I do know you. I knew you when I was a pup. What’s your name? Moiras, Maries, somethin’. You were a house slave I spilled an entire pot of tea on,” Nari says confidently, sheathing her sword and stepping in front of you.

A flicker on the Qunari’s face. A reaction, something, but whether its a positive or negative reaction is lost on you. Rather than attempting to analyze it, you fall back to strategizing how to keep Nari from getting her throat slit by the larger person. 

“You’re not the first, nor last, elf to spill tea on me,” they say.

“Well, you take up a lot of space. Statistically, if tea was gonna land on someone, it’s gonna be you, ain’t it?”

Nari grins, and the Qunari’s eyebrow rises maybe a millimeter toward their hairline. You start planning a way to use Nari’s corpse defensively.

“I’m--I’m sorry to interrupt, but I have a question,” the human man says. He’s tentative, unsure of himself, and hasn’t taken his eyes off of you since he entered. This worries you. Any time a man has taken an interest in you, it has lead to a fight, and usually the death of the man. Which, of course, lead to strict punishments. If you hadn’t been Marcellus’s star fighter, she may have suffered far worse in the past.

“It’s a free country, ain’t it?” Nari replies with a careless shrug and the air of a joke that has been told hundreds of times to similarly dim reactions.

“Are you Illana Dacien?” he asks you. It feels as though the intensity of that wet, tearful gaze is going to bore into your skull. His raw emotion feels like a weapon. Who does that? What adult just lets their feelings be visible for anyone to see? What if you had been an enemy, willing to exploit that vulnerability? Who is to say you  _ aren’t _ an enemy?

You swallow, hard. Panic and adrenaline mingle in your blood and you know that if the attack does not come soon, you may miss your timing.

“Yes,” you say. You can’t put a finger on why you’re honest with him, but you are. Perhaps you feel the need to reward vulnerability with some of your own, although yours is less...naked. Perhaps you simply want to catch him off your guard. Perhaps you’re curious about his intentions.

“You’re--I’m--I…” He pauses, apparently choked up with emotion. “Was your mother’s name Althea?”

The pity in your heart for this man evaporates as he invokes a name you’ve not heard in years. You move in a blur, and one of your daggers finds his throat as his companion’s touches your midsection. The qunari moved faster than you’d expected, but this was more or less the outcome you’d prepared for. You hear Nari unsheathe her sword behind you, but your eyes fixate on the older man’s face.

“ _ Who are you? _ ” you ask in a growl.

“My name is Gaius, I--”

“ _ How do you know. Her. Name. _ ” Your words are sharp, guttural, the closest thing you could possibly get to raising your voice outside of the arena. 

The man takes a deep breath, tears tracking down his face once more. He looks largely unconcerned with your knife at his throat, the barest pricklings of blood becoming visible as he breathes.

“I’m your father.”

“I don’t have a father,” you snap, but you can see yourself in him before you finish. Your eyes, the slant of your cheekbones. Perhaps even your voice. You feel your blood drain from your face as the realization that he may be telling the truth settles in.

“And for that, I am so, so sorry,” he says. 

Your arms sag, your hands limp around the hilts of your daggers. The Qunari’s daggers fall away from you, and your father steps forward. He’s in your space. You don’t like it, but you cannot find words to push him off. He does not touch you, and for that you are grateful because you do not know how you would hurt him if he touched you right now. 

Idly, you wonder if you look as freaked out as you feel.

“Hey, are you alright?” Nari asks, but you can barely hear her.

“What are you doing here?” you ask. You try to be demanding, to be hard and aggressive and mean. Your voice comes out sounding soft. Vulnerable.

“We’re here to take you away from here,” the Qunari says, putting a hand on the man’s shoulder.

Your father’s shoulder.

Your eyes snap up, no longer seeking the floor as you try to reconcile the idea of a living family, and you look the Qunari in the eye. You’re a creature of tactics, of blood and bone and strategy. You are not laid weak by simple revelations.

“To where?”


	3. Catacombs

The catacombs beneath Minrathous are thought of as a fantasy. A myth of some kind of underground maze that slaves could use to escape their bonds. Some dream of ancient architecture as a way to hide and travel without being detected. You had no idea that Marcellus’s cellar connected to them with a bit of careful digging, and why would you? You would also have no idea of a castle hiding in the clouds that you could get to with just a bit of flapping. You have learned not to hope for such things.

And yet, there was the hole in the cellar. There were the catacombs. There was your father, your father who had come to save you, stepping through the hole to show you the way. The Qunari, Maraas, lingers behind you, watching the group’s back. Tactically sound, if they were all allies.

You shake your head and follow Nari who has already climbed in after your father.

These people want to help you. Perhaps they have ulterior motives, as anyone might, but they are the first people in your life besides your mother who wish freedom upon you. They are backed by a safety net, and they have a cause to follow. In your experience, those who fight for a cause fight harder than anyone else. Having beliefs is something you’ve always envied, but perhaps this Uprising--as Maraas and your father called it--has something for you.

Cause or not, they would give you freedom. This is an opportunity you would be a fool to pass up.

Nari had resisted the idea when Maraas first presented it. It was as controversial as when you’d had the harebrained idea to simply run off into the streets as an escape plan. But Maraas had something you had not: structure. Safety. The backing of an organization. Even with all that, Nari had certainly balked, but when it the location of their safehouse was revealed, she had decided to come along.

Apparently, there was a woman out there named Calpernia. A slave. An escaped slave. She had been owned by a man called Erasthenes who had taught her magic. She had used that magic to kill him, kill the men who knew her as a slave, and had returned to restore Tevinter to a mighty power without corruption.

“The corruption meanin’ slavery, naturally,” Nari had explained.

You had not known of this woman, but Nari had. Among the slaves who whispered of rebellion, in the past year Calpernia’s name had become a rallying cry. She had done what no one dared. She lived recklessly, powerfully. Erasthenes’ home is where their safe house stoof, comfortably in the heart of Minrathous, above reproach.

It sounds to you like a foolish staging area, but you’ve never lead a slave revolt before, so what do you know?

The transition between cellar and catacombs is sudden and jarring.

Marcellus’ cellar was simpler than the rest of the estate, Marcellus himself being rather privately afraid of dark and closed off spaces. It was simply a dank room where one kept wine in one half, and undesirable cleaning supplies in the other. Only slaves went down here. You’ve only been in the cellar a handful of times in your time here, but you can tell that it’s been poorly maintained in comparison to the clean, efficient use of space in the training grounds or the opulent, ostentatious decorations in the manor itself.

The catacombs, just a wall and some determined magic away, are grand. They look like cathedrals. Swooping architecture, stairways that go on for longer than the eye can see, and only the smell of brackish water to betray that this is only the remnant of a lost time of greatness.

You are lead downward on a narrow stairway leading into the heart of the catacombs. As your eyes adjust to the dark, you see the signs of ruin and disrepair. Collapsed columns, scorch marks, and filth mark the entire route you take. It strikes you as a heavy handed metaphor for the state of the nation, and you scoff to yourself at the idea.

“Guy, can we get a light?” comes a voice from behind you.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” your father says.

His staff glows in his hand, illuminating the area around you in cold blue light.

“It’s not that dark. Won’t it give away our position?” Nari says, squinting back at Maraas cautiously. Interesting. She keeps revealing herself to be more cautious than you think, again and again. You may have to reevaluate your mental image of the elf.

“Maraas and I aren’t gifted with elven vision,” your father says, chuckling to himself. “I’m sure they could only see directly in front of them.”

“I’d rather be able to see my enemies coming, even if means they see me as well,” Maraas grumbles. If you knew them better, you might assume that they are embarrassed. As it stands, they still aren’t emoting enough to give you a clear read.

“Do slave hunters often come here?” you ask.

“The catacombs are a forgotten piece of Tevinter’s history, Illana,” your father says gently.

You want to flinch away from his compassionate tone. It feels patronizing. It feels like the wheedling ways of Marcellus and his friends, talking to you as though you are a child. It feels as though he doesn’t fear you, as they did not fear you. You do not know if you want him to fear you, and the thought troubles you.

“Why?” you ask to distract yourself from these thoughts.

“This country is no longer what it once was,” he says. There’s a sadness in his voice, and you wonder faintly if he was born in Tevinter.

Your mother never spoke of the past. It seemed painful for her.

“Everyone knows that, gramps,” Nari mutters. “You don’t have to know how to read to know every magister with a thumb up his ass is moanin’ about being a global power in the bygone eras.” She snorts and glances back at you for approval.

You raise your eyebrows at her, and when she faces away from you again, you smile. You watch her shoulders hunch at the lack of approval from her peers, and tuck away that knowledge for later. You may not have had as many opportunities to eavesdrop on magisters talking about the history of the nation, but you do know a thing or two about slaves.

Absently, you remind yourself that Nari and yourself are no longer slaves.

“I’m not talking just about Tevinter being a global power,” your father says wearily. “It’s about the people. In the past, Minrathous was the jewel of Tevinter because of the people's’ dedication to it. The art, the architecture, the richness of this place does not come from magic or dragons or Gods. It came from people.”

“You talk like Minrathous is populated by darkspawn,” you say.

“Is it not?” Maraas asks.

Your father ignores them, choosing to answer your question seriously rather than resort to insults. “Those in power only care about their own power. They don’t care about the city, the people, the nation. They make foolish, amoral grabs at true magical greatness and fail again and again because they have no hearts.”

“You really care about this place,” you say. You keep the statement neutral.

Some part of you, deep in your heart, resents that love. This is the place that has hurt you your entire life. This is the place that enslaved your mother. This is the place that forced you to fight and kill. This is the place that forced you to be the person you are now.

That last point stops you in your mental tracks. _The person you are now._ You have faced much suffering at the hands of your nation, but perhaps it has shaped you for a reason.

“I love the people,” he says, and seems to sense your unease.

“Even the people who own other people?” you ask. There’s a challenge in your voice, but it is hidden in your neutral tone. It is the type of attitude that has gotten you beatings in the past.

He shakes his head slowly, mournfully. He seems to be a man who has been mournful all his life.

“Tevinter is a place of much freedom, for some. I want that freedom for everyone.”

“The freedom to abuse others?” Again, a challenge. This one is bold. It demands a response.

“No, Illana!” he says, turning to look back at you. He looks baffled, hurt. _How could you say that?_ “The freedom to study, to learn about the past, to build a foundation for the future. The freedom to use magic to aid communities. The freedom to create art.”

There is a moment of tense silence, and your group stops walking to look at one another. You stare at the floor furiously, trying to work your emotions into words. You’re angry, but you don’t know if you’re angry at your father or the country or the opportunities you have lost.

“That freedom is being smothered by the magisterium,” Maraas says. Their voice is uncharacteristically harsh in their condemnation.

“Which is why we’re walkin’ in puddles in the dark?” Nari says, raising her voice in a clear attempt to break the tension. “If nobody comes down here, cos it’s forgotten, why are we talking so quietly?”

Although you have all stopped moving, you hear the slosh of feet tracking through water. You turn, your sharp eyes seeking shapes in the dim. You had hardly noticed the several inches of dirty water running along the ground as you’d traversed the catacombs; you’d been so focused on the conversation at hand. As you hold up a hand to quiet Nari, your father extinguishes the light of his staff.

Maraas hisses at the sudden darkness, but Nari unsheathes her blade. As the light from the staff fades from your eyes, your vision clears. Your daggers are in your hand; the sloshing continues but you cannot see men approaching. Thoughtlessly, you enter into a combat stance--your center of weight low and your knees bent and ready to move.

Jaws the size of a man snap shut between you and your father. Nari scampers back--lighter on her feet than she looks--and shoves Maraas away from the beast. You slide to the side, trying to skirt around the monster, but it’s longer than you could have anticipated. A dragon? No, impossible. It is close to 5 meters long, white, with thick scales and a ridged spine.

You do not get more time to take in the beast. It lashes around in the water and tries to spring at you again. It’s clumsy, seeming to move better in deeper water, but it’s faster and lower than you expect. It snatches at your leg, and the pain is indescribable.

Its teeth dig into your calf, meeting bone as you scream and fall into the water. It shakes its head, as if to tear your leg from your body, and white edges your vision. Your head feels light, and you gnash your teeth, trying to will yourself away from unconsciousness. You hear screaming. You do not know if it is your own.

Your vision whites out entirely.

You fall, your head hitting the stone underneath the inches of water. Faintly, you wonder if you will first drown or be ripped to pieces. You lose consciousness.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Is she okay?” It’s Nari’s voice, and the concern in her voice is touching.

“Not yet, but she will be.” The man, the man who says he is your father, sounds close to you. His voice is soft and warm, soothing. You still haven’t made up your mind about hating him.

You are aware you are in pain, that something horrible has happened to your leg, but something is cutting you off from all that. Part of you, inside your dazed head, is livid. This part of you refuses to be brought down by a glorified lizard, something so pitiful it must live in the sewers to survive, preying on the unwary. This part of you is the part that fights to survive any situation, that will cling tooth and nail to life. The rest of you, which is feeling comfortable and warm beyond the gripping pain, is glad to be lying down.

Something is happening to you. You feel weakened and stronger all at once, as though something--some _energy_ \--is being drained from you and fed back to you. You crack your eyes open, looking at your surroundings through your eyelashes.

Your father stands over you, casting a spell. There is blood on his hands. Your blood. He touches your leg, which tingles warmly at his touch, and uses it. Strength saps from you, then returns to you with a glow from his hands.

“Blood magic,” you whisper. Your voice is hoarse and straddles the border between furious and grateful.

“I know, I know. It’s an abomination to the Maker and I’m going to the Void for my trespasses,” he mutters angrily, still focused on healing you.

“Did you cut me?” you ask, propping yourself up on your elbows.

You’d been carried to higher ground, a dry area near another spiraling stairway, and Maraas had used their pack as a pillow while you had been unconscious. You squint at your own legs, but it seems to just be a pass of torn fabric and your own blood. Your father’s hands are rubbing at them, but you can’t see past them to see your own flesh.

“The crocodile did,” he responds, still irritable. “The blood was already in the water, and it wasn’t like you were going to use it for anything else.” He sighs, sitting back on his haunches, and pinches the bridge of his nose. Some of your blood remains on his face as he goes on, “I’m sorry, Illana. I didn’t expect this attack, and I didn’t defend for it, and you got hurt. It’s my fault. I’m going to make it better.”

You pause.

“What happened? Why am I not dead?” you ask.

Maraas answers, “Thank this one and your father,” they say, gesturing vaguely to Nari. “She cut off it’s head and pried open its jaws. She’s a strong little one. I was useless in the dark, so I carried you to this ledge before you drowned.

“Your pa did all the work of keeping you alive,” Nari adds. She sounds defensive, as though she doesn’t want to be caught being compassionate. “He’s right, you know. You lost a lot of blood. If he didn’t do his blood magic abomination junk, you’d be dead.”

You think about that for a moment. Together, all three of these people--practically strangers the lot of them--had worked to save your life. You’d been helpless in the jaws of the creature, but they had pulled through for you. This was not the sort of thing that happened to you. You were a slave. A possession to Marcellus, a thing to use and abuse, but a favorite. Therefore, a terrifying freak to your peers. You were alone. You had thought you might always be alone.

“Thank you,” you say softly.

Your father finishes his work, and smiles wanly at you. Nari rubs the back of her head and looks away, embarrassed. Maraas looks at a place somewhere past your shoulder, and nods briefly.

You smile. At first it’s a soft thing, an expression you like to wear quickly and then hide, but it grows wider as the silence stretches onward. Nari, glancing back at you, sees it and smiles back before looking away again. Maraas raises their eyebrows. Your father looks close to tears, something you’ve started to get used to.

“Aw nuts, guys, this is getting sappy,” Nari says, stretching her shoulders. “Let’s get back to talkin’ about the magisterium being our grand oppressors or whatever.”

“What was it you said, Maraas?” your father asks. “It smothers our freedoms?” There’s an attitude of a joke to it, as though simply returning to your previous conversation would be enough to avoid any discussion of trust or friendship in the group.

“So we kill the magisterium,” you say, standing unsteadily.

They look at you, and you smile with confidence. Alone, you were nothing. Together, though? Perhaps there is something else. You think about Minrathous again, about Tevinter, about your father’s love for this place.

This is the place that forced you to be the person you are now.

This is the place that shaped you into a tool.

A weapon.

This is the place that shaped you into the knife that will slit the magisterium’s throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was challenging to write because Illana has a lot of feelings and absolutely no way to express them healthily. She's confused and angry and grateful, but she also feels unsafe so it's not like she can just go blabbing about them. After all this, because she knows she can trust these people with her life, she might be more comfortable trusting them with her feelings. As all of them have been victims of trauma, talking about their feelings is something they're gonna probably want to do...
> 
> Also originally the crocodile was 15 meters on accident, which is like 45 feet, which is terrifying. I looked up a lot of articles on crocodiles. Did you know crocodiles really have been sighted in sewers before? Isn't that bananas?


	4. Clothes Make the Man

Erasthenes, you’ve heard, was a scholar and a recluse. Nari told you stories of the undusted books, the soaring architecture, the hushed silence that falls over the viewer as they enter this once grand home. Nari, of course, has no idea what she’s talking about. She speaks from the experience of someone who’s cousin once knew someone who had escaped to Calpernia’s quietly infamous safehouse.

The place is, in reality, a beehive of activity. If it was undusted when the hundred escaped slaves or sympathizers took up occupation in its halls, there’s little evidence of it. The only rooms not available to the “general public” as Maraas had put it are the vast libraries, holding many ancient secrets. You assume that this Calpernia hopes to find  a solution to slavery in these ancient secrets, but you wonder what wisdom the ancients could possibly hold in the face of generations of tradition and power imbalances so huge they could never be toppled.

You shake your head, trying to loose that thought. You have made up your mind to stay, to aid in whatever way you can. Right now, you’re aware that much of the aid you will provide will be in killing. It’s what you know, what you are skilled at.

You have the suspicion that this uprising may become a war, if it is not already, and wars require much death.

“Dacien,” Maraas’s leathery voice wakes you from your ponderings. “The tailor has time for us now.”

You glance up, then look at your father out of the corner of your eye. He is busy at work healing the sick and injured who have made their way to Erasthenes’ home. Although close to a hundred people are living and working in the safe house at any given point, you’ve been told it’s mostly a jumping off point for people leaving the city--and then the country. Many who attempt escape on their own end up here as well, bloody and bruised and desperate for any help.

“Are you coming?” you ask your father.

He does not look up. “Oh, I’ve been here for a while. These people need my help more than I need a new outfit, Illana.”

You rise to your feet and follow Maraas out of the bedroom-turned-waiting room-turned-hospital. You’ve begun to notice patterns in the way people talk to you. Your father uses your given name, treasures it as only the one who gave it to you could. He has never been a slave, you’ve learned. Maraas uses your surname, your father’s name. Qunari do not have names, they told you, and they do not have families. Maraas understands what pride it is to have a second name, an identity.

Nari still calls you _Imperator._ It rests comfortably between a compliment and a challenge. She may have forgotten your name as soon as you’d told it to her. It doesn’t matter, however, because to her you will always be The Imperator, the champion, the metric to measure herself against.

At least, so you assume.

There is a sitting room not far from the hospital room your father has taken up residence in, and that is where the tailor waits.

Anyone who wishes to walk through Minrathous, to leave the country or to stay and work with the Uprising, cannot look like a slave. Most especially, they cannot look like an escaped slave. The risk of being recognized by someone who knew them as a slave is only mitigated by clothing, of course, but Minrathous is a big city. A big city with a lot of guards on watch for slaves who seem uppity enough to make eye contact. Dressing like a freeman is of the utmost importance.

Calpernia saw this need, and provided a solution: the tailor.

“Who is he?” you had asked Maraas.

After the adventure in the catacombs, Maraas had lead the merry band to Erasthenes’ home, and given them places to sleep. Nari and your father fell asleep quickly, but you were wide awake. It gave the two of you a chance to talk.

“A trophy from Calpernia’s time in the South,” they’d said, their voice flat and even.

“A...trophy…?”

Your mind had wandered along the alleys opened by the word. Was he an enemy commander she’d bested and enslaved? That didn’t sound right. A lover, met in a strange land, taken home? Perhaps. Perhaps he was not a person at all, you mused, but some magical mechanism invented by Calpernia’s enemies.

“A friend,” Maraas clarified, looking at you closely.

“What was Calpernia doing in the South?” you ask, the words torn from you before you can think better of showing ignorance.

Maraas quirked an eyebrow at you, and you felt shame. You lifted your chin and refused to show it, like a child.

Maraas told you about the foolhardy war, fought on behalf of ancients. A cult of idiots, following a demon who claimed to be a god, called Corypheus. There were entire nations caught up in the war, an Inquisition--the word is unfamiliar to you in this context--a betrayal.

“Calpernia allied with this man, this _thing_ , who wanted to rewrite the entire world so Tevinter remained on top,” Maraas said with disgust.

It was the most emotion you’d heard from them. It felt intimate. You averted your eyes. Still, your exposing a weakness was rewarded in a private emotion. You continued on, perhaps against your better judgement.

“I was told Tevinter is still the top,” you admitted. “Gaius--my father--talking about the state of things was the first I’d heard of any decay. I assumed it was always like this.”

Maraas looked at you for a long time before replying. You remember urging yourself not to squirm under their cold golden gaze. A ghost of a smile--too subtle and too quick to latch onto, but there nonetheless--crossed their face.

“Assumptions are dangerous, Dacien,” they said to you. “Assumptions get people killed. Ignorance is weakness, remember that.”

You remember their words as they lead you into what must have been the master bedroom, some years ago. It is now fitted with what seems like leagues of cloth, spools of string and wires, half of a shitty armory taking up the entire back wall, and an extremely harried looking elven man with only one eye.

His long blonde hair, longer and more beautiful than you’ve ever seen on an elf, is sloppily tied up and continually falling in his eyes as he attempts to measure a piece of cloth using bits of string. He glares up at you when the two of you enter, squinting behind tiny circular glasses with his one blue eye.

“Sit.” Once the brief command leaves his lips, he’s back to measuring. After a while, he takes out scissors.

You wonder if he is a blood mage, and if he’s attempting to control your actions. You sit regardless. Maraas stands behind you. As you wait, the twisting discomfort of having someone with daggers at their hips standing behind you mellows into something like trust. Maraas helped save your life, you remember. Maraas has no reason to kill you. Maraas is an ally.

At long last, the tailor stands and stretches, rolling his shoulders and reaching up to the sky. When he finishes this ritual, he turns to you and looks you over.

“This is Illana Dacien,” Maraas says. “Her father’s the mage who uses blood to heal.”

The tailor’s eye flicks up to Maraas. “Sounds intuitive enough. Didn’t know slaves have fathers.”

“They don’t,” you say. You are surprised at the harshness of your own tone.

“Nope, we spring as fully formed working 8 year olds from the ocean,” Maraas says. Their voice is flat and neutral. “S’why Minrathous has so many.”

“What are you going on about now, Maraas?” the tailor snaps.

“Port city. Right next to the ocean. It’s also why everyone’s so desperate for Seheron. Island.”

Laughter bubbles out of you before you can even fully process what they said. You cover your hand with your mouth, trying to press the guffaw back inside of you, but it comes out nonetheless. Tears prick in your eyes as you think over what they said for a second time, trying to ensure you understood it.

The tailor and Maraas are both staring at you.

You clear your throat.

“That was the funniest thing I’ve ever heard,” you say as flatly as Maraas has ever said anything.

“Well, I hope that’s...over,” the tailor says, lip curling in disapproval. “Stand up.”

You stand.

“Sorry about that,” Maraas says plainly. “I’ll leave you to it.”

After they leave the room, the tailor shakes his head. “Never know what is going on in that one’s head,” he says. “Anyway, what are you?”

 _Assumptions are dangerous._ You’re beginning to see what they mean.

“What am I?” you ask. He nods expectantly. “Elaborate.”

He sighs deeply.

“Are you here to stay? To fight? To manage coin? Will you be leaving the city? Do you want armor? Do you want freedom of motion? Are you a mage?” He jabs you in the shoulder. “What. Are. You.”

You want to smack his hand away and tear his throat out. You want to kill him for daring to touch you. You want to--but you won’t. This tailor, this insufferable little man with an accent you can’t place, is a key member of this Uprising. And believe it or not, you care about this movement. So no, you won’t kill him. But that doesn’t mean you, now a free woman, have to take this treatment.

“You’ll take your hands off me,” you say, your voice so low it is practically a growl.

You see fear flicker in his eye, but his gaze hardens quickly. His lip curls. You can still see the fear in him, but he hides it well.

“I’m a tailor, sweetcakes. I’m gonna need to touch you, to poke you, to measure you. And you’re gonna need to get off your high horse and deal with it, okay?” He rolls his eye and draws back to look at you, pinching the bridge of his nose directly beneath the silly round glasses. “Listen, champ. You’re traumatized, I get that. You’ve been...fighting all your life, I’m guessing, from the looks of you. But you can’t pull that shit out here. This is a safe goddamn space for everyone who’s been through that same trauma, and if you go being a violent dickhead, you’re gonna get yourself killed.”

Assumptions.

“What’s your name?” you ask.

He looks taken aback, and you can’t help but consider that a victory. You tell yourself that you should stop thinking of every interaction as a battle, but that’s something to focus on later.

“Lionel,” he says. “I’m from Ferelden.”

“Where is that?” you ask, surrendering all pretenses to knowledge. This isn’t a time to be tough, you decide. He’s right about being a violent dickhead, obsessed with victory and power. If you’re going to be free, if you’re going to free others, you have to let some of that go.

His eyebrow quirks in response; a question he didn’t expect.

“Let me measure you, spread your arms,” he says. You comply. “Ferelden is to the Southeast. It’s a muddy, cold country full of dogs and damp. Will you be staying in Tevinter?”

“Yes,” you say. “I’m going to fight. Did you not like it there?”

“I loved it,” he says with a soft laugh. There’s sorry in the laugh, but you don’t understand it. You wait. “I love the dogs most of all. But after the Blight--”

“What is that?”

He sputters for a moment, apparently shocked. You frown slightly, a crease growing between your eyebrows. Surrendering your power complex to ask questions is harder than you thought it would be.

“How sheltered _were_ you?” he asks. There’s genuine sympathy in his voice, the kind that makes you bristle. “You weren’t a house slave then, obviously. Weird.” He continues to measure, shrugging off his initial surprise. “I guess it’s fitting to ask a Fereldan about the Blight. There are creatures called Darkspawn, they live underground. Almost like men, but worse. They corrupt everything they touch, and kill it. Mostly they hang around in the Deep Roads with the dwarves, but during a Blight, they have a commander. It goes from a deadly nuisance to a war. You should ask the Grey Warden about it, he’ll know more.”

You nod slowly, taking it in. Horrors underground? You can understand that. You don’t know much about dwarves, besides the fact that they invented the Provings that you fought in, but you figure that’s enough for now. You’ll find a dwarf and ask them about dwarves, rather than a random elf, and you’ll find the Grey Warden (whatever that might be) to ask about the Blight.

“What happened to you because of the Blight?” you ask.

“What colors do you like?” he asks, turning to his table covered in cloth.

You blink in surprise. “Red.”

“Oh, the angry little girl likes red? Groundbreaking,” he says. Before you can lash out at him, he waves a hand. “A madman took the reins of the country because of the chaos. He allowed Tevinter slavers into my alienage. They used a manufactured plague to steal us, and took my parents. Fereldan life lost a bit of its glamor after that.”

You bite your lip, thinking carefully. Being honest and open with him leaves you with an exposed belly, letting him cut right into you if he wants--emotionally speaking, of course. He likes to lash out too, you think. He had a hard life, and reacts to it with sarcasm in the same way that you react with violence. You think you may be starting on the path of understanding with this man.

“You’re in the right place,” you say. You place a hand on his shoulder. “You’re helping.”

He smiles wanly. “You are too. Do you plan on helping quickly or with a big sword?”

“I…” What in the world is he talking about? As it dawns on you, you let out a bark of a laugh. “Oh, quickly. Daggers.”

He eyes you, raising his eyebrows, and shrugs. As he turns to his work, he says, “I would’ve pegged you as the warrior type. You’ve got the anger for it. You can leave if you want, I’ll call you in for final adjustments later.”

You move to leave the room, but pause at the door.

“Anger is a tool. You can use it lots of ways.”

“Oh?” he asks disinterestedly, focused on picking out an appropriate leather chestpiece to alter.

“Like tailoring,” you say, and you leave the room.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The armor you wear now isn’t the same as the armor you wore in the Provings. It fits your body better, fitting snugly but not uncomfortably. The leather chestpiece is flimsier than you’re used to, made to be light and quick rather than to take serious blows, and you’re aware you’ll have to adjust some strategies for that. Your undershirt, protecting you from having leather grating against your skin at all times, is red. It rises high on your neck, and covers your arms to your wrists, visible at all times despite the armor covering it. It’s beautiful cloth, finer than anything you’ve ever worn, though less grand than you’ve seen Marcellus or his guests wear. Your black breeches fit perfectly, and make you look maybe a little _too_ nice for what you’re used to.

The most notable to you, however, is your shoes. Brown leather boots, rising all the way to your knees, cracked and worn but in perfect condition. The soles are sturdy, reinforced, and the leather seems to sigh happily every time you move. Marcellus kept you clothed, and occasionally armored, but he did not care if you went barefoot.

You’ve spotted others, other escapees, looking at you since you got your clothes. There isn’t fear in their eyes, and you aren’t sure how to respond to the attention.

Nari has been strutting about in her new clothes, too, soaking in the looks they earn her. Her armor is sturdier than yours, with a metal chestplate and leather trousers. Her boots are metal too, and clack loudly against the bare stone floors of the hallways. She is proud of the sound she creates, of the looks she gets, and puffs up like a hen whenever you attempt to speak with her.

It’s a little maddening, but you’ve put it aside. As it is, you’re at loose ends for perhaps the first time in your life. Your father is still taking care of wounded and sick as they come through, and has become popular in the house because of it, but you have done nothing but sit around. All of the people in charge have bustled around, too busy to notice you.

Without a specific mission, simply wandering around Minrathous seems suicidal. You know Marcellus and his entire household is out of the city, but that wouldn’t stop a city guard from somehow spotting the aura of enslavement on you and cutting you down and selling you back into slavery where you would live forever until Marcellus came to claim you and personally fed you to a dragon.

Thinking about it more closely, you may be being irrational.

Still, it seems unwise.

Maraas has been out and about on various missions, talking to a hawkish human man with black hair and sharp eyes before setting out. You do not know who he is. Occasionally, you see them talking to a dwarven woman in clothing so beautiful it almost hurts to look at. You do not know who she is either. Maraas seems to be too busy for introductions.

When the hawkish man approaches you for the first time, you are helping your father with some healing. You have no gift for magic, but you do have a gift for holding people still while he sets bones. Apparently magic can only do so much. The two of you do not talk about feelings, but you have learned much about healing in the 48 hours you’ve been in Calpernia’s safe house.

“Illana, was it?” the man asks.

You look to your father, who glances up and nods; your work here is done. You stand and turn to face the man. He’s taller than you expected, having only seen him from afar. Even then, he was only talking to Maraas, who makes everyone look small. He’s wearing blue and silver, either a uniform or a symbol of status, with a bow slung across his back. His black hair, pinned back behind his head with a silver clasp, is greying at the temples, and his eyes look as tired as they are sharp. He carries himself with a simple authority. Not like Magisters, who walk like peacocks, but like a warrior who knows what he is doing. He has the same accent as the tailor--Fereldan?

“Who’s asking?” It sounds rude, like a challenge, but you are genuinely curious. You hope your open expression and measured tone communicate this. You’ve been working hard not to get on everyone’s bad side.

“Nathaniel Howe,” he says, bowing. You have never been bowed to before; there’s something thrilling about it you have trouble putting words to. “I take it you _are_ Illana Dacien? I see Gaius behind you, which would seem to be a clue.”

You cast a glance behind you at your father. He smiles at his name, but does not look up from his work.

“I am, yes. Are you important?” Again, your words come out more antagonistic than you’d intended. You level your gaze with him and refuse to look apologetic all the same.

He chuckles softly with a gentle shrug. “I’m sure it depends on who you ask. To you? Maybe not.”

“To Calpernia?” you ask.

“Ah, that’s a question for the Lady herself. I advise her on some matters of subtlety, something I’m afraid she has always lacked. Don’t tell her I said so,” he says conspiratorially.

You watch him carefully, and move away to wash your hands in the basin by the door. He wants you to like him, or trust him, for some reason. Or maybe he’s just like that. He follows you to the basin, but stands a respectful distance away. Perhaps you’re just not used to respect. You know fear, sure, and even some love from your father, but respect is new.

“Why are you looking for me, Ser Howe, O Mighty Advisor?” you ask, turning back to him and leaning against the wall behind you. You cross your arms and watch him in the hopes of understanding him. “Do you need advice from me?”

He smiles a smile that’s half smirk, raising his eyebrows. He did not expect to be teased, but he seems to like it. Weirdo.

“Maybe. It seems to me like you’ve been at a loss for what to do, so perhaps you could use some advising of your own,” he says. You open your mouth to ask how he knew that, but he cuts you off before you have the opportunity to speak. “Maraas told me.”

You think about that for a moment. Maraas was talking about you. This Nathaniel had noticed you based on the words of someone else.

“How do you know Maraas?” you ask.

He looks slightly surprised at your line of questioning. “They were one of the first to join up with Calpernia’s movement. Before me, even. They--well, I won’t tell you about the circumstances of their freedom. That’s a personal story to tell. When they escaped, they were alone. It was luck that Calpernia found them and brought them here.”

“That’s how Calpernia knows Maraas, not how you do. How did you come from Ferelden to here?”

He smiles, and his eyes crease at the corners.

“You have an ear for accents. I came here to make up for someone in my family’s evildoing. I knew of Calpernia because of her...role...in the war to the South, and I heard of her cause from a friend of a friend. It seemed like a good fit, so I’m here to help in any way I can.”

“To advise?”

“In matters of subtlety, yes,” he says with a slim smile.

You think about this for a moment. A man from the south whose evil family had done something to warrant such atonement? Either this Nathaniel is a very good man, or complicit in much evil. That sounds like a judgement to be made later, however.

“So you have a task for me?” you ask, uncrossing your arms at long last.

His smile grows by a fraction, his eyes crinkling deeper. “If you’re up to it, my Lady. You may bring your friends, as well.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you like my lil tailor! Yeah, he's kindof a dick. But I love him. Also, welcome the FIRST canon character to the story! Is it super obvious I'm way too into him? I feel like it's super obvious but I can't write him not being hot so...I hope you guys like Very Sexy Nathaniel Howe.
> 
> Okay, now for some more serious notes: This chapter is really to show how much Illana needs to adjust to her new life, her new purpose. She was cultivated to be violent, aggressive, and alone. Working with others, exposing her own weaknesses so others can help her, is entirely new. She knows so little about the world, and it's embarrassing to her, but as a bioware protagonist, she's gotta ask a lot of questions, right? In the next chapter, there will be more action, as well as more characters introduced.
> 
> If you have any thoughts or questions or anything, please leave a comment! They fuel my self worth


	5. A General

The trip through Minrathous to the city gates is remarkably uneventful. City guards glance at you, but their eyes pass over you, looking for true threats. Even with daggers on your hips, sharp and lethal, your father’s staff warrants a closer look  than you do. Maraas has the hardest time of it; there aren’t many Qunari refugees in the city.

Regardless, you cross the bridge that protects the city from invaders. Nathaniel told you in passing that if the city were to be sieged from land, the Magisters could hide in the catacombs for months after collapsing the bridge, giving the invaders time to give up. He seemed bored with this tactical analysis, but his eyes had watched your face carefully as you took in the information. You wonder faintly if he trusts you, if that was a test of faith.

You suppose you’ll find out later. For now, you have a mission.

As it stands, Calpernia has a very small circle of people she can trust. She has been used all her life, and betrayed by those who were most valuable with one or two exceptions. Still, an enterprise as large as ridding Tevinter of slavery requires some delegation of duties. As a result, the small council was born. The beautifully dressed dwarven woman you’ve spotted from time to time is Tavia Ulren, who Calpernia relies on for political matters. Nathaniel was sparse on the details, probably due to his job: subtlety.

He told you that all wars require an element of subterfuge. Calpernia’s reputation  for melting her enemies’ bones in the city itself does not lend itself to being careful with information management, so Nathaniel offered his services.

What they lack is a general.

“There are roughly one hundred people working for Calpernia right now, ourselves included,” Nathaniel had said. “We have no concrete way of organizing people like you, the people on the ground.”

“I can be subtle,” you had said, huffing at the perceived insult.

His smile was indulgent, and made you feel like a child. “We’ll see about that. As it is, we need a way to delegate tasks. I control the information and secrets, Tavia has the Ambassadoria in her pocket, but I have no idea how to coordinate forces for battles.”

“You expect battles?”

“Battles are often the only way to change stubborn minds. I know from experience. But they must happen strategically, or this movement will die in a street brawl. We need a general.”

Fortunately, Nathaniel using all of his connections to his advantage, had a lead on someone who may have experience with that exact thing. He offered limited details on the mark, only that he had been tracked to the outskirts of Minrathous and that he was violent.

You have never been outside of Minrathous. You’ve vaguely heard of the imperial highway connecting all of the major cities in Tevinter, but other than that, you don’t know what to expect. Minrathous itself takes up the entirety of the rocky island off of the mainland, with only the magically maintained bridge connecting it to the mainland Highway and the rest of the world. It’s an excellent strategic location for grounded combat, but from the looks of the city and the sheer number of refugees from the war with Par Vollen, the city didn’t seem to have been built with a naval war in mind.

The sun will set in a few hours, so foot traffic on the bridge is higher than you had expected. Your father explains that people will live in the city and travel to do trade, only coming home for the evening, or work in the city but make their homes in the Valarian fields surrounding the entrance to the city.

The fields could be more accurately named “plantations,” manned almost entirely by slave labor to keep Minrathous fed and functioning. Without Valarian’s farm belt right outside the city, the city would be forced to rely on magically preserved produce, which would last them a year at most. Afterwards, the city could fish, but slowly die of scurvy. Unfortunately, the slaves would starve to death first, so destroying the bridge would only harm your cause.

Not that you were eyeing the bridge and wondering exactly how much it would take to wreck it, that is.

You wouldn’t do that.

Not until you had a plan for getting the slaves out of the city.

Meanwhile, you need to focus on the mission at hand. What you know about the man you’re hunting is as follows: he was a slave who escaped, was chased by his master, and ultimately killed him. He returned to Tevinter years later to personally hunt and kill slave hunters. He is violent, and he is cunning, and you need to use caution.

Your father showed you a map of the surrounding areas of Minrathous before you left while you discussed strategies. He explained the system of plantations, of the reserves in the city, of the produce generated by slaves.

To you, entire fields left abandoned during the night was asking for slaves to take advantage and make their way along the highway to colder climates. Maraas had agreed, and told you about slave hunters wandering through the fields, whacking bushes to find anyone who thought they were clever.

It seems only logical to catch the man who hunts slave hunters by watching his quarry and waiting for him to strike. At least, more logical than simply following a trail of corpses.

Your plan had been met with an uncharacteristically expressive eyebrow quirk from Maraas. That, or you were getting better at reading their expressions. They seemed to approve, and nobody else had a better plan, so this is the one you’re moving forward with.

The fields roll out for miles before you with a gentle glow in the low light. Big white houses gleam like teeth as the sun sets, the only things standing out amongst the neat criss-crossing crops throughout Valarian. Slim dirt paths from the various properties join together to a wide, flat, unpaved road that eventually connects to the Imperial Highway and feeds the entire city. 

As the sun slips behind the mountains in the West, lanterns and candles light across the fields as men on horseback lead the slaves to their cramped cabins in the shadow of their master’s houses. You beckon Nari, Maraas, and your father to follow you as you walk to the closest hill to set up watch.

The hill you choose has a large tree on it, with twisting and coiling bark that you wouldn’t expect from a tree this large. To be fair, you don’t know a lot about trees. The trees you’ve seen have been nearly suffocated by their urban environment, or were only glimpsed from a great distance seen between buildings. 

The alienage in Minrathous is small, but its’ impacting is lasting. You know Althea, the woman your father had named as your mother, would crane her neck to see the leaves of its vhenadhal whenever she went to fetch groceries.

“It’s an olive tree,” your father says softly, noting your reverence. “There are orchards of them a little ways north, I’ve heard.”

For a while you let the sentiment rest, and the only sounds are those of early night. A gentle wind rustles the leaves of the trees, and the softsounds of animals from the forested area beyond the fields. It’s nice to have someone who knows the names of trees, you think. It’s a thought that you cherish, that you tuck away deep inside your chest for more reflection later. Throughout your life, specific thoughts and memories have been buried away for you to rediscover in dark, lonely times.

Your favorite is the memory of learning to read with your mother. Her long black hair fell over her shoulder and into your lap as you sat between her legs, staring at a series of words and notes she’d written for you to learn from. You looked up and saw her large, patient eyes as she waited for you to take the lesson seriously.

“How did you know Althea? How did you know she was my mother?” you ask, turning to address your father.

He looks surprised, and then confused. “I’m your father, Illana.” His voice is almost sad.

You shake your head, and hold a hand in the air, trying to still his words until you can explain yourself better. You run your free hand over your scalp, feeling the pleasant fuzzy sensation and finding words of your own.

“Althea wasn’t my mother, though. Not by birth,” you explain. “She’s an elf.”

Your father tips his head, and out of the corner of your eye you see Nari stir, suddenly paying attention to the conversation. Maraas is keeping an eye on the fields, and doesn’t react. The silence before he answers seems to stretch fully into nightfall, but the truth of it is just that the sun finishes slipping behind the mountains a little bit before you finish your clarification. Distantly, you hear an owl hooting.

“You’re an elf, pumpkin,” he finally says. It sounds like he’s being careful, as if his words are walking near broken glass.

You raise a hand to touch the rounded tips of your ears and gesture questioningly. When he doesn’t respond but for a shake of his head, you move to stand next to Nari and gesture at your distinct height difference. You aren’t on the small side of human, even. You’re brushing 6 feet tall even with with poor nutrition throughout your childhood. There’s no way you could be the same race as the strapping warrior to your left, who barely clears 5 feet.

“You’re kidding?” Nari asks, looking dubiously up at you. “You’re obviously elf-blooded, Imperator.”

This is...not the reaction you expected from her.

“How could you know your mother was Althea, but believe her not to be your true mother?” your father asks.

You frown sharply. “She  _ is _ my mother, but she’s an elf. Just because she adopted me, took me under her wing from when I was born--it doesn’t mean she’s any less of my mother. But...I’m not…”

Maraas clears their throat, drawing your attention, and points into the field. A small group of men, one mounted on a dracolisk while the rest racee on horses, speed across a field of grain. You squint. They’re maybe 200 meters away, and focused on a single target.

You beckon the others, and they nod. This weird little conversation about your heritage can wait until you’ve found the Uprising a General. You have no mounts, but you also have a fairly wide deadline of finding them simply ‘before they get killed,’ so you’re not too worried about catching up.

Even if they do get killed before you can get there, you always have the backup plan of following the bloody footprints and shouting really loudly until the murderous would-be commander comes to investigate.

It’s Plan B for a reason.

The four of you begin marching Northwest, where any escaping slave worth their salt would try to get into the forested foothills that lead to the High Reach and hide until the slave hunters gave up. You are are glad that your stamina exercises from your time as the Imperator translates into walking for a long time, especially as you see your father start to fatigue the closer you get to the slave hunters’ trail.

The mounted men are slowing as they fan out, probably because they’ve lost their quarry and now need careful eyes on the fields. You motion to your companions to duck below the height of the grain, lest you be mistaken for escaped slaves. The idea amuses you, and your mouth quirks into a silly smile as you continue your pursuit. If they found you, you would not be slaves they’re looking for. You wonder if they’d even take you in now, with all your fine clothes and armor.

“Have you found him?” one of the men calls to the others.

“Blast, it’s like he just disappeared!” another one shouts.

“We could always set flame to the crops,” the first says. He sounds bored, like he has a spouse to get home to. “That should expose him real quick.”

“Oh I don’t know about that. The farmers here are real powerful,” the second one replies. His voice is loud enough to carry across the field, but sounds nervous. “Most of ‘em are magisters or their families, just trying to be above the city life. It ain’t like Vyrantium, where anyone with a hoe can take up farming.”

“Quiet, the both of you,” the one on the dracolisk says. He has the voice of command. Now you know which one to kill if your general doesn’t show up first. “Did you hear that?”

You hold out a hand, stopping your companions in their tracks. You’re maybe 4 meters away from them, and any sound you make would be easily mistaken for the scrambling of a desperate escapee. You hold your breath and listen for whatever the commander may have heard.

Footsteps. They sound like bare feet treading on compacted dirt; following the barest of footpaths between the rows of grain where the workers walk. You hear the subtle  _ shiing _ of a bladed weapon leaving its sheath. The horses are snorting nervously. Now that you’re close, you count 4 men on horses and the one dracolisk. Only one tread breaks the silence, the person is alone. .

The slave hunters slowly pull together, narrowing in on the source of the sound. Idiots. They’re making it easier to strike at all of them at once, efficiently sweeping through the group and disabling them before anyone can run off to get help or get behind you. You suppose it’s sound enough strategy for tracking a single unarmed slave. Your lip curls in disgust as you think about it. 5 mounted men with weapons and armor to track down and apprehend a single field hand?

You hear a throat clear. You hear a dracolisk scream. The horses and men erupt into chaos as the dracolisk sinks to its knees. The air fills with the tangy and metallic scent ofblood.

It’s time to move forward.

Your daggers are in your hands before you finish the thought, and you stand tall. The man with the large sword who has just beheaded the dracolisk and impaled the (understandably) shocked commander is glowing.

You’ll deal with that later.

“Maraas, Nari! Charge the horses!” you say, rushing forward.

While they dash ahead, your father casts a circle of flame around the hooves of the horses. Nari bellows, Maraas is silent. As you skirt the group, you see the horses’ eyes are wide with panic. They rear and buck and rid themselves of their human burdens, and gallop away as fast as they can. This leaves four men on the ground, surrounded by flame and mysterious enemies.

You nimbly step over the flames and approach the men. In the firelight your blades gleam as though they are on fire themselves and cast odd shadows on your face. You hope you look like their reckoning. You smile--a deep, satisfied expression the likes of which few living men have seen.

The slave hunters do not appreciate the drama of the moment. Two charge at you together while the other two are busy with your companions. You duck below the blade of one, tripping the other with an extended leg. The first overshoots, running past you, while the other stumbles and falls. The first recovers quickly, spinning to attack a second time. 

You use his momentum against him, a second time. You leap, more gracefully than a man his size could even imagine, and spin. You’re behind him in a heartbeat. Your blades puncture his armor and sink between his shoulder blades in the next. A laugh of pure exultation rips from your lips as you descend on the other. He tries to stand, backing up, but stumbles again. You feel like a feral predator as you approach him, your knives dripping the blood of his ally. He tries to stand a second time, but one of your father’s spells hits him, immobilizing him in some invisible prison.

You slit his throat swiftly, ending his torture. His blood spurts out hissing as it hits the ring of fire behind you. You watch him die, content that the others are handling their own fights.

Nari is circling one of the others, his sword ready to parry any of her attacks. It looks as though this dance may have been going on for the duration of your swift kills. She’s so focused on attacks from the front that she entirely misses the remaining man behind her. He has a sword levied at her back when a forceful spell knocks him directly into Maraas--or, more importantly, their blades. Maraas nods thankfully at your father, who gives them a weak thumbs up.

Nari’s opponent yelps in surprise, his eyes tracking the trajectory of his friend and his subsequent death, and Nari uses the opening. She knocks aside his sword easily, and by the time his attention is back on her, her sword has entered his stomach and left his back. In the grim firelight, she’s smiling.

“I got two,” you say casually, ignoring the fact that your voice is still shaking from the adrenaline.

“Aw, fuck you,” she says, spitting to the side. She bares her teeth in a savage smile and you can see she’s determined to best you next time. It’s good. You’re both glad there will be a next time at all.

As she removes the man from her blade with her foot, the man with the glowing skin approaches. He’s a dark skinned elf with lines of light etched into his skin. It disappears beneath his armor, but extends onto his arms and neck, rising all the way to his chin. You can’t tell if his white hair is a byproduct of whatever magic is coursing through him, or if it’s just an elven thing. Either way, he matches the description Nathaniel gave you.

He’s holding his sword defensively, glowering impressively. Maraas and Nari are both joining in the posturing keeping their weapons up and trying fiercely to out-glower him. It seems already he’s winning the glower-off but you feel the need to deescalate the situation.

You sheathe your blades and step forward, hands out by your sides where he can see them. You know for a fact that you’re faster than him, and if he makes a move toward you your weapons will practically leap into your hands and then into his throat. This is not as much of a leap of faith as it appears to someone who does not know your skillset.

“Who are you?” he growls. His eyes are flicking back and forth to each member of your little group, but ultimately settle on you. You feel a flash of satisfaction that he’s accurately assessed you as the biggest threat, in your personal opinion. .

“I’m Illana Dacien,” you say, starting off simple. “We are escaped slaves working with an underground slave uprising.”

“I’m not,” your father says. You glance at him. He’s doesn’t appear to be deeply involved in the conversation, working instead on magically extinguishing the flames before they consume the field. “A slave, I mean,” he continues. “I’m working with the uprising.”

“He’s not,” you clarify. “He helped Nari here and I escape.”

The new general narrows his eyes at you. “What does an underground slave uprising want with me?”

You raise your eyebrows as if the answer should be obvious. “You’ve been killing slavers for ten years, Fenris. You’ve fought in large-scale battles against entire armies. You’re a valuable mind to have on the team.”

“How do you know my name and past?” His voice is lower than you would have expected from such a small man. Despite how tense he is, it’s almost soothing to listen to.

“Do you know a man named Nathaniel Howe?” you respond.

He tilts his head to the side and chews on the inside of his lip before he replies. “I met him once, I think. Years ago. Across the world.”

“Well, then I guess it’s time for a reunion, eh?” Nari says, tucking her sword behind her shoulder, sliding it easily into a belt on her back.

You turn to face them, putting Fenris at your back--as vocal an expression of trust as you can bear--while Maraas shrugs and sheaths their weapons as well. You hear the sound of Fenris returning his sword to its position as well, but you do not look.

“Did the slave they were pursuing get away?” your father asks, peering into the darkness. “It’s too dark without the lanterns...”

You glance over your shoulder. A pale sliver of movement is briefly visible between the trees of the forest. If you had to guess, you would say it was pale flesh reflecting the rising moon, belonging to someone peeking out to see if the fire was yet put out and the slavers dead.

“I think he made it,” you say, turning back to your father.

Instead of the relieved expression you had expected, he greets this statement with a smug look. You look to Nari in confusion, but she shares the expression to a comical degree. Maraas is keeping an eye on Fenris, who is still behind you, but the faintest shadow of amusement seems to be present somewhere in their stance.

“Hey Imperator. Told you,” Nari says playfully.

“What did you tell her?” Fenris asks irritably.

“We told her she was an elf-mothered idiot,” Nari replies, placing her hands on her hips like a sassy child.

“Your eyesight is particularly good in the dark, don’t you think?” your father says, laughter hiding in his voice. “Come on, we should get back to Minrathous before someone comes to investigate the smoke.”

You make a noise half way between a huff and a growl in frustration. This will require a serious look at your own identity, but that can wait.

“Will you come with us?” you ask, turning to Fenris.

“You are based in the city itself?” he asks. “That seems dangerous. And foolish.”

You shrug. “It is. But it’s necessary. We’re going to rid this country of slavery, and we need your help.”

He looks at you for a long moment. His green eyes seem to glow in the moonlight, just as the lines in his skin are fading to pale tattoos rather than distinctly magical lines of power. He’s beautiful, in a way. Like a wild animal or a graceful kick.

“We shall see,” he says, and beckons for you to lead the way back to Minrathous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hellooooo second ever canon character! Let's hope he doesn't find out Illana's dad is a blood mage too soon! *wink*
> 
> This chapter came out really differently than I expected when I first started writing it! I expected them to go get Fenris very quickly, come back to the city, and do other things! But that's not how it went down, exactly. Re: Illana not knowing she's an elf; A lot of slaves don't know their parents, but people will fill parental roles for them. So when people treat Illana like a human, she looks like a human, and she never straight out asked Althea if they were related by blood, it seemed obvious that Illana was a human. It just wasn't something she questioned!
> 
> Also, who would have guessed, writing combat is super hard! I think I'm getting the hang of it, though.
> 
> A special thank you to cathybrokeit12, who painstakingly looked through this chapter! Her little edits really helped the whole thing come together and I'm very glad to have had her as a beta reader!


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